


Not Dead

by Ilovecastiel18



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2020-06-16 02:44:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19635931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilovecastiel18/pseuds/Ilovecastiel18
Summary: Set when Sherlock comes back from dismantling Moriarty’s network. No Mary. Greg is comforting John, yet again, in 221B when Sherlock walks into the flat and interrupts. He explains why he had to leave and why he couldn’t tell them. One-Shot. Mild Language Warning.





	Not Dead

**Author's Note:**

> I really like Greg and I wanted to rewrite his reunion with Sherlock, but I also wanted John in the mix. I wrote this in my head to fall asleep last night, and decided I wanted to write it. I’m American, so my slang may not be very…well, British. Apologies if this sounds Americanized. Review and let me know if you liked it!

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock, along with its characters, location, etc. are the property of BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn’t mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch ;)

……..

Not Dead

……..

“It’s all right, mate.” Greg Lestrade was sitting next to Dr. John Watson on the couch of 221B, comforting him. It had been two years, but John still hadn’t gotten over the death of his best friend, Sherlock Holmes.

Not that Greg missed him any less.

John was hunched over, curled in on himself, sobbing into his hands. Greg continued to rub soothing circles on his back and whisper comforting words in his ear.

“Come on John, he wouldn’t want you to be broken up like this. He loved you. More than he ever conveyed, more than I’ve ever seen him love anyone. You were his best friend, and he loved you with all his heart.” Greg whispered.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you be so incredibly correct, Lestrade. Indeed, I love him. More than he ever had the chance to know.”

Greg and John looked up in utter shock.

“No _fucking_ way…” Greg whispered. His hand stopped moving on John’s back, and sat still on his shoulder blade.

Standing in the doorway of 221B was none other than Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective. He was pulling his gloves off his hands gingerly before stuffing them in his coat pocket and pulling that off as well. He hung up his coat and scarf before turning back to the two men.

“In short: not dead.” Sherlock stated.

Greg stood slowly from the couch and walked forward until he was right in front of Sherlock.

“You utter bastard…” he snapped. He drew back like he was going to hit Sherlock before reaching forward and grabbing the consulting detective’s shoulders, pulling him forward in a fierce embrace.

Sherlock patted Greg’s shoulder with his left hand, keeping his right arm firmly at his side.

When he pulled back, Greg went to ask Sherlock a lot of questions, starting with how the _bloody hell_ he had jumped off a _bloody building_ and survived. Or why the _hell_ he hadn’t told them he was still alive.

His words died in his throat, however, when he looked back over his shoulder and saw John.

John was staring at the scene in front of him, anger and hurt in his eyes. He hadn’t bothered to wipe the dried tear tracks off his face.

Lestrade realized he should probably excuse himself to give them some privacy.

“I’m going to…erm…bathroom.” Lestrade practically fled down the hall, closing the bathroom door louder than was strictly necessary.

Sherlock stepped forward a bit.

“John.” He seemed to be expecting to be forgiven instantly. John had a different idea. He stood and slowly made his way in front of Sherlock. Without saying anything, he drew back his fist and punched Sherlock square in the nose.

Sherlock instantly reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose to stop blood from leaking onto his shirt, moving around John to the box of tissues on the coffee table.

“I’ll admit I probably deserved that.” He muttered thickly. He pushed a tissue up against his nose to try and stop the bleeding.

“ _Probably?!_ ” John yelled. “ _Two fucking years, Sherlock!_ Two years! I have been grieving your loss for two years! You broke me by leaving, Sherlock! I once again became the lost, empty man I was before I met you! I nearly followed in your footsteps and jumped off St. Bart’s bloody roof! I would’ve if it wasn’t for Greg! Why the _fuck_ would you make me go through that!” he screamed.

“I had no choice, John.” Sherlock replied. The blood streaming from his nose was already slowing down. It seemed John hadn’t hit him as hard as he could have.

“You didn’t have a choice whether to jump or whether to tell me?” John voice had become dangerously low, like he was about to strike out and beat Sherlock to a pulp.

“Either.”

“Care to explain now?” John whispered, still in that dangerous tone.

Sherlock pulled the tissue away from his nose. The bleeding had stopped. He took a clean tissue from the box and dipped it in a glass of water on the coffee table, using it to clean off the dried blood around his nose. He then took a couple of sips of the water to get the coppery taste of blood out of his mouth.

“I wouldn’t be here now if I didn’t plan on telling you.” He replied. “Lestrade, you might as well join us for this part!” Sherlock called down the hall. He heard the bathroom door open and heard footsteps come down the hall. Soon, Greg was standing with the other two men, a short distance away.

“I didn’t jump off that building because I wanted to, first of all. I jump to save the two of you and Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock stated.

The tiniest hit of anger left John’s face when he said this. “Oh yeah? How so?” John asked. He was still royally pissed off, just a little less than before.

“Moriarty had snipers at each of your locations. If I didn’t jump off the building, you two and Mrs. Hudson would have been killed. I couldn’t let that happen.” All three of their expressions softened a bit at this.

“And why couldn’t you tell us you were alive?” John asked.

“I had to go and take down Moriarty’s network. Nobody could know I was alive in case someone got careless and let it slip, tipping off the people in the network. Mycroft’s orders. I had no choice. I didn’t want to do it, trust me. I would have much rather been here with you guys rather than out there being…doing what I had to do. I wanted to tell you.” Sherlock explained.

“You paused. Why did you pause?” John demanded.

“Almost divulged too much information.” Sherlock replied simply.

“Oh, no. You’re going to tell me _everything,_ Sherlock. You don’t get to leave things out.” John snapped. Greg was listening silently.

“I don’t think you want to know, John.”

“The fuck I don’t, Sherlock.”

Finally, Greg piped up. “I think I speak for both John and I when I say we want to know, Sherlock.”

“I doubt you do, but if you insist.” Sherlock took a moment to steel himself. “I was…captured. In Serbia. Final stop. I was…tortured. Everything you can imagine. The especially liked to…whip me. There, happy?” Sherlock snapped.

“Yes! I mean, God no, Sherlock, what do you mean you were tortured?” John replied.

“I think the words ‘torture’ and ‘whip’ made that fairly obvious, John. Do keep up.”

“Damn it, Sherlock, you’re going to tell me!” John yelled.

Sherlock sighed and gave him a look before he stripped off his suit jacket and started undoing the buttons of his shirt. It didn’t take him long, and after it was fully unbuttoned, he turned and let it drop from his shoulders.

“Jesus…” Greg gasped.

There were whip marks and burns engraved in every inch of skin on Sherlock’s back, wrapping around his biceps and pectoral muscles and lowering below the waist of his trousers.

John just stared, not making a sound. He slowly moved forward to get a better look at Sherlock’s back. He brushed his fingers over one of the deeper burns on Sherlock back, causing his to flinch away with a small gasp of pain.

“Holy shit…” Greg muttered. He too stepped forward to get a better look at Sherlock’s back. John moved to the front of him to look at the marks on his chest and arms when Sherlock flinched again, this time from Greg’s touch.

John saw the whip marks that had wrapped around and under Sherlock’s pectoral muscles, and saw where they had wrapped around his waist and biceps. He saw that they lowered below his waistline, and was keen to see just how horrible they were, how much treatment Sherlock was going to need. Greg soon joined in beside him, still muttering a string of curse words under his breath.

“How long were you there?” John whispered. Sherlock wasn’t making eye contact with the two men in front of him.

“I was there for six weeks before Mycroft got me out.” Sherlock replied. He pulled his shirt back up onto his shoulders and made to button in when he was stopped by John’s arm on his hand.

“I need to see the marks below the waist of your trousers so I can see how much treatment you’re going to need, Sherlock.” He said sternly.

“I’m fine, John. No need to worry.” Sherlock shook John’s hand loose and began buttoning his shirt.

“Damn it, Sherlock, I need to treat these marks so they don’t become infected!” John yelled.

“Mycroft’s people have already tended to them.” Sherlock had finished buttoning his shirt and bent down to grab his jacket, gasping in pain as the marks on his back stretched.

“They’ll need further treatment, Sherlock!” John glared at him.

“Damn it, John, haven’t I shared enough with you today!” Sherlock snapped. He pulled his suit jacket over his shoulders and buttoned in.

John sighed in defeat. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. It’s just that I thought you were gone, and I was never getting you back. Now I have you back and you’re badly hurt, and I just want to take care of you. I don’t want to lose you again.” John’s voice cracked.

Sherlock sighed and stepped forward, wrapping his arms around John’s shoulders and pulling him into his chest. He felt John’s arms wind around his waist.

“I know, John. I’m sorry I snapped, and I will never forgive myself for leaving you like I did. But it had to be done. In any case, Lestrade was right. I love you, Dr. John Watson” Sherlock muttered into John’s hair.

“I love you too, Sherlock.” The two stood there for a long moment before they realized Greg was still there, awkwardly studying the yellow smiley face painted on the wall.

“C’mere, Greg.” Sherlock said, pulling his right arm from John’s shoulder and holding it out for Greg to join the hug. John followed suit.

Greg smiled and stepped forward into the hug, wrapping his left arm around John’s shoulders and his right arm around Sherlock’s back, careful of his marks and burns. He sighed contently.

Sherlock was back.

All was well.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I’m a huge Potterhead and I couldn’t resist ending this fic like JK Rowling ended Deathly Hallows. Sorry not sorry. Please leave a review if you liked this fic!


End file.
